CHAPTER VIII
A PAGE FROM THE PAST
She swept into the room, humming a light opera tune, bringing with her the usual flood of perfumes, suggestion of cosmetics, a vivid apparition of the artificial. Her skirts rustled aggressively, her voice was just one degree too loud. Mannering rose to his feet a little wearily.
She looked at him with raised eyebrows.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "What have you been doing with yourself, Lawrence? You look like a ghost!"
"I am quite well," he answered, calmly.
"Then you don't look it," she answered, bluntly. "Where have you been for the last few weeks?"
"Up in the North," he answered. "It was very hot, and I had a great deal to do. I suppose I am suffering, like the rest of us, from a little overwork."
She spread herself out in a chair opposite to him.
"Don't stand," she said; "you fidget me. I have something to say to you."